


Sunlight, to Chase Away the Snow

by owlboxes



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, cuteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24603700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlboxes/pseuds/owlboxes
Summary: James wakes from a dream of somewhere cold and far away, and decides that he and Francis need a little sunshine in their lives.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 11
Kudos: 47





	Sunlight, to Chase Away the Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Here's that picnic fic I've been promising for ages! Special thanks to [ Irish ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irish/pseuds/irish) for reading over this and making sure that it wasn't just incoherent jibberish. <3

He woke with the memory of winter’s chill in his bones.

It wasn’t the first time. In the long months following their miraculous return to England, James had woken frequently with phantom pain and the whisper of near-frostbite against skin that had finally begun to lose its wind-chapped and sun-darkened coloring. None of it was real, the product of dreams that often didn’t quite lean into nightmares but bordered on something foreboding, heavy with a sense of far-off and intangible dread. Sometimes, he swore he could still feel the way that his bones ached and the ever-present agony that had rendered it impossible to sleep, impossible to find peace, when he was so close to the end. Most nights, even a cool breeze through the window transformed the landscape of his dreams from opulent ballrooms to long stretches of ice, frigid white peppered with stunning blue where pressure ridges had risen, insurmountable, before him.

It took a moment to situate himself when he woke, to remember that they were long gone from ice and snow and desolation. On that particular morning, salvation came in the form of a strong arm wrapped loosely around his waist, and the soft but steady snore from somewhere behind him. Francis’ body was a warm weight dipping the mattress, one that he wiggled back against to ward off that lingering chill that he’d dreamed of. Sunlight streamed in through a gap in the heavy curtains - they’d been drawn haphazardly closed the night prior, when sleep had been the last of his thoughts, preoccupied with hurrying to make use of their bed in another manner altogether. That morning, it was a tangible reminder of where they found themselves, of how warm London could be in the springtime when compared with the deadly cold they'd survived together not so long ago.

Most mornings, the easiest thing was to stay in bed. Through the winter months, James had often found himself unwilling to walk, bare footed, across the floor to dress for the day. There was the temptation to stay right where he was, tangled in sheets and tangled up with Francis. That particular morning, there was a spark that he couldn’t quite seem to ignore, however, spurred on by the knowledge that outside, in their small but well-kept garden, flowers were blooming, bright and fragrant. Oh, how delightful it would be, to spend an afternoon outdoors of the quiet confines of their shared home, face upturned to bask in the sunlight. Inspiration struck then, in a way that he'd been lacking since the first snow had fallen some months prior, and he was suddenly restless with it.

Beside him, Francis made a low, frustrated sound in his throat when James began to untangle himself from their embrace. "Hush, dear," James murmured sweetly, turning to press a soft kiss to Francis' forehead. "Go back to sleep. It's still early.” After all, the last thing he wanted was for his surprise to be ruined. With one last kiss, he slipped from under the sheets, and found the floorboards warm in places where the light dappled across them, stepped gingerly over the shaded parts like a schoolboy playing Scotch-Hoppers. As he began to ready for the day, James found himself brimming with an energy he'd forgotten could exist.

___

He'd never fancied himself much of a cook, knew only the simplest of recipes, though with their current arrangement as it was, it had become much more imperative that they learn to care for themselves. A maid would come twice a week to tidy, but finding reliable staff who wouldn't become judgmental of their situation or prone to gossiping was a challenge. James knew the potential consequences, should loose lips spill their secret. Even ignoring the implications of what it would mean for their reputations or their careers, he was constantly reminded of the very real possibility of losing one another. For once, it wasn't vanity or social standing that weighed heavily on his mind, but the thought of a public execution, and the agony of knowing that he'd sent Francis to the gallows; whether his participation in all of it had been willing or not, James would have blamed himself for it until the last breath had been forced from his lungs. And so, he'd learned some basic skills in the kitchen to keep them both decently fed. It was enough, at least, that a simple meal for a day out in the sunshine was something that he could manage.

The pantry was thankfully stocked, as was the icebox, and James set to work with the kitchen windows open and birds happily chattering outside. It was very much a labor of love, preparing a meal that was worthy of their impromptu outing. Of course, it couldn’t be anything terribly simple - the idea was to treat Francis to something special. Not for any particular occasion either, but as spring prepared to give way to summer, James found himself thankful for the seasons they'd lived together, and those still to come. And oh, did he adore spoiling his lover, simply for the sake of seeing him smile. With tragedy finally behind them, he thought, he'd do anything to make certain that Francis would smile every day for the rest of his life.

He was interrupted briefly, about an hour later, by a very curious Francis peeking in through the doorway. With flour on his hands and dusting his apron, he shooed him away to the drawing room, promised a cup of tea and something to nibble for breakfast. When the inevitable question came about his strange behavior, he brushed it off with a huff.

"You'll ruin the surprise if you keep prying," he insisted, when he returned a short while later, to press a hot cup of tea into Francis' waiting hands. "You've trusted me before. Would you not extend that same courtesy now?"

It was a ridiculous bit of theatrics, maybe, tinted with a dramatic pout, but for how unnecessary it might have been, it brought forth a chuckle from his beloved, and that sound only further warmed his heart. Worth it, then.

“Alright, alright,” Francis conceded - at least partially because he knew that there was no point to bickering with James over it, but mostly because regardless of what the end result of said surprise might be, the obvious work that James was putting into it was beyond thoughtful. That anyone would go out of their way to treat him was still a fact that he couldn’t quite seem to wrap his head around. As he slid an arm about James’ thin waist, to draw him in close enough to press a kiss to his cheek (and yet still far enough to avoid ending up with his waistcoat splotched white with flour), he hummed softly. “How long do you intend to bar me from the kitchen then?”

“Only until my work is through, darling,” James quipped, turned his head to snag a proper kiss instead, and then wiggled his way out of Francis’ grasp. From down the hall, the air had begun to fill with the aroma of fresh-baked goods. It would be such a pity were he to forget about what was in the oven, despite how frustratingly difficult he always found it to pull away, especially with Francis in such a genial mood.

The bliss of the life that they had built themselves was so easy, and yet, so many would call it an abomination, an act against God. As James neatly wrapped his newly-baked scones and tucked them away into a basket he’d set upon the counter, he couldn’t help but wonder why something that brought them both such joy could ever be considered an affront. He was never fit to be a father, and had never been inclined to marry and settle (though, secretly, he had thought on a number of occasions of how handsome Francis might look with an infant swaddled and held in his arms). The truth is that no woman could ever comprehend the trials they’d been through together. Sophia Cracroft could not have comforted Francis late at night, when the ghosts of the men they’d left behind had conjured themselves in his nightmares. He snorted at the very thought of her even trying, and had to push a very unbecoming momentary pettiness from his mind.

No, sin or not, he had never felt more stable or more treasured in his entire life. He might not have been able to provide a family the way that Francis’ former sweetheart could have, but what he lacked biologically, he more than made up for with his unending devotion. With that thought bringing a smug smile to his lips, he fetched a glass decanter from a cabinet across the room, and continued on with the preparations, with renewed determination to make their afternoon a memorable one.

______

It was noon before he had finished packing, and the last item set atop the rest was a heavy blanket, snatched from a linen closet and neatly folded to fit into the basket. Their meal would be a light but carefully prepared one; he’d included everything for an afternoon tea besides the tea itself, and only because the thought of drinking lukewarm Earl Grey did not appeal to him in the least. In its place was a decanter filled with lemonade, to accompany an assortment of treats to nibble on: cucumber sandwiches, egg mayonnaise with cress, nasturtium sandwiches (the flowers picked fresh from their garden that very morning), dried fruit scones, clotted cream and fruit preserves. It wasn’t much of a feast, but he could hope that it would be pleasing at least to his beloved, who he found still settled in the drawing room with a book in hand, keeping himself busy since his banishment from the kitchen and James’s general vicinity.

The puzzled look that Francis gave him at the instruction to get dressed and to prepare for a day outdoors was undeniably adorable. They had tended to isolate beyond compulsory events, and occasional visits with friends, Francis especially. He’d never had a taste for all of the galas and dinners and social outings that James had always been so fond of. But with the promise that this wasn’t an ambush - “No, darling, you needn’t worry. There will be no guests but ourselves.” \- Francis disappeared upstairs briefly and James was left by the door, basket in hand, brimming with excitement for the afternoon to come.

From the home they had taken together since their return, it was a decently short and pleasant walk to Regent’s Park. With the sun shining above and a light breeze blowing, James found it impossible not to smile. He’d caught Francis glancing at the basket at least a half dozen times since they’d left the house, and each time, it only further filled him with excitement. This wouldn’t be a garden tea party, with a neatly-set table, maids to see to the arrangements, hot tea and fine clothing and unending gossip. It would be something very different and very much their own.

Much to his delight, it didn’t take long to locate a quiet stretch right by the water, secluded from where the park’s other patrons were gathered in families, enjoying the warmth of spring just as much as he intended to. A small clearing under a tall oak tree, surrounded by tall grass and brush, and spattered with tiny wildflowers, was the perfect spot to call theirs for the afternoon.

“Here, Francis, help me for a moment,” he murmured, setting the basket off to the side and folding back the lid to pull the blanket out, handing one end of it to his bewildered lover. With the wind coming off the water and causing the blanket to billow, it took a moment to lay it down flat. As James settled on it, and began to unpack their meal, he heard Francis chuckle, and reached a hand out in invitation to join him.

“So this is what caused you to jeopardize the kitchen all morning,” Francis hummed, his tone light and teasing, as he looked over the neatly wrapped paper packages laid out over the blanket - tied with ribbon, he noted with no little amusement, because when had James ever missed an opportunity to add a little flair to everything that he did? “Should I even ask what prompted it?”

James managed somehow to look at once proud of his plan’s fruition, and then forlorn as the memory of how he’d woken that morning came back to him briefly. “I dreamed of Erebus and Terror last night,” he answered softly, after a moment spent setting out plates and cut glasses, uncapping jars of preserve and clotted cream. And then, softer, to avoid the attention of any potential onlookers, “I would have woken frozen to the bone were you not there to warm me.”

The sound that Francis made in reply was somewhere between understanding and not wanting to discuss it. It seemed bordering on profane to speak of their lost ships - moreso of their lost men - who would never sit in the sunlight as they were then. But he knew, all the same, what it meant to endure such nightmares, weighing heavily enough on his mind that they almost came to life in the moments between sleeping and waking. “Good then, that I was there,” he said, after a brief pause to consider. “You chill far too easily.”

“I recalled waking up aboard HMS Enterprise,” James continued, pouring them each a glass of lemonade and then carefully setting about unwrapping their sandwiches. “Weeks after we’d been rescued. It was the first morning that I was well enough to dress myself. Do you remember-”

“I do,” Francis interjected, having shaken off some of the chill brought on simply by speaking of their time in the arctic. His smile came easier at that particular memory. “I remember finding you at the doorway to the cabin, with color in your face for the first time since we’d been brought aboard. You insisted on going above. You’d said, if I recall properly, some nonsense about wanting to feel the kiss of sunlight on your cheeks.”

It hadn’t been quite so refined, in reality. Still weak from his unfortunately lengthy recovery, James had made it so far as the ladderway before he’d felt his knees nearly give out beneath him. It was only with Francis’s help that he’d managed to make it up on deck, and they’d stood side by side, filling their lungs with the salt-tinged air of the Atlantic for the first time in years. It wasn’t warm, not by any standard other than that of two men who had come down from the arctic circle barely clinging to life. But in comparison, it had felt like the loveliest summer’s day.

“I wanted to take my afternoon tea out on deck and you wouldn’t allow it. Even Ross himself took note of how you would fret over me while I was recovering. We joked about it over that delightful roast duck that we shared that evening.” James set out each neatly prepared sandwich as he spoke, and unwrapped the scones. His lips were curled into a smile of his own, finally, at the fondness that came with remembering the months spent sailing back to England. “And for all of my badgering over your attention, the truth of the matter is that I relished in knowing that you worried so over my well-being. With vanity washed away, I finally felt...deserving.”

“You always were deserving, James,” Francis replied easily, as if there had never been bad blood between them, as if they hadn’t spent the early part of their voyage bickering across the wardroom table like a couple of schoolboys. He laid his hand over James’s own, briefly, a subtle show of affection, and likely the only that they could get away with while sitting out in public together.

That was enough to have the lightest flush tinting James’ cheeks, and he chuckled softly, a hand lifting to brush through his hair in a flustered moment. “Yes, well. The point of the matter is that, standing next to you and looking out over the Atlantic, after all we’d managed to survive together...” his voice trailed briefly, as if he was, for once, deeply considering exactly what he wanted to say before speaking. “That was the first time I’d truly felt warm in years. And I’ve continued to feel that way ever since,” he finally continued on, sitting back and turning his head to look over at Francis, lips curled in a sheepish smile. “I’d thought a meal in the sunshine together - so that we might both feel the kiss of it on our faces-” He smirked. “-could express even the slightest fraction of how thankful I am.”

“You forget that I’ve plenty of reason to be thankful as well,” Francis answered, sounding for all the world as if they were speaking of simple favors they’d done for one another, and not of the fact that had they not had one another to lean on, neither of them would have likely ever set foot on English soil again, and nor would the two dozen men they’d managed to save. “Including this impressive feast you’ve spent your morning laboring over. Though...” He reached across the blanket, to pick up one of the neatly cut nasturtium sandwiches, making a show of wrinkling his nose. “I’m not sure how petals from our garden ended up in these.”

James’s laughter bubbled up from his throat, bright and hearty, and Francis’s own soon followed. The nasturtium petals were delightfully peppery, and once he’d taken a bite, no further complaints about the use of flowers for a sandwich followed. They talked about far less weighty topics while they ate, chatting idly about the dinner they’d shared with James Clark Ross and his wife the week prior, and then about plans for a new plot of soil in the garden that James had been hoping to plant roses in, and what they would have for dinner that evening, as they’d likely not be home until the sun was beginning to set. The domesticity of it was striking, when James took a moment to think about it, refilling their glasses with the sweet lemonade he’d made so lovingly that morning.

The intention to settle down with someone had never been pressing to him, after all. He’d loved before, though never anywhere near as deeply as this. On occasion, he would find himself watching Francis doing the smallest, most meaningless things - the slight furrow of his brow and the steadiness of his hands as he shaved in the morning, the idle tap of his toes when a song was stuck in his head, or how he would sometimes doze off by the fire in the evening, head nodding as he fought sleep, stubborn even in his tiredness - and James’s heart would swell with an affection that he had never known until Francis had come into his life. He couldn’t imagine finding such felicity with anyone else, nor had he ever thought that he would be happy forsaking a life of adventure in favor of the certainty of waking up each morning to that low, rumbly brogue and a strong body wrapped around his own.

It was late in the afternoon, and Francis had saved the crusts of his bread to feed to the ducks who had been idly loitering nearby in high hopes that someone might take pity on them. It was another kindness that he would likely brush off were it mentioned, but it was one of a thousand reasons that James found himself so irreversibly, hopelessly in love. As Francis scooted forward, to sit at the edge of the blanket and toss bits of bread crust to their recently gathered audience, James sat back and watched him, and was nearly overcome with a joy that threatened to bring tears to his eyes. He wanted, desperately, to kiss him - long, and slow, and sweet, and to pour all of the affection into it, every last drop that felt like it was expanding in his chest and threatening to make him burst.

Once they were alone, he would. Once the front door was closed, and the rest of the judgmental world was left outside of the confines of the happy home they’d built together, he would kiss Francis until they were both breathless and supper was forgotten altogether. He would kiss him a hundred times between then and when sleep finally claimed them again, and kiss him again come morning, before either of them had fully woken. For now, he settled instead for discreetly trailing his fingertips along the small of Francis’ back, at the line where his waistcoat ended and the soft fabric of his shirt beneath was peeking out, and grinning at the curious look that he was given in return.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Francis said, once he’d tossed the last of the bread out to the ducks, and had moved back to where he’d been settled before. James had since stretched out, and was lounging comfortably with his head propped up with one arm. “And the only time you’re ever this quiet is when you’re troubled, or when you’re plotting something.”

“Plotting, this time,” James replied, lips tugging into a smirk, as he looked up at Francis. His voice dropped before he spoke again. “I find myself wrapped up in my thoughts of you, far beyond what is appropriate given where we’ve chosen to spend our afternoon.”

“You were the one who chose, if you recall,” Francis pointed out. “Perhaps next time, we should venture only as far as that spot in the garden. The one under the lilac tree.”

“But then we’d be missing the opportunity to do our duty as proper gentlemen and make sure that the ducks are fed...” James tapped his chin with his fingertip, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “Though I suppose I could use that particular argument as incentive to put in that pond that I’ve been considering.”

Francis scoffed, though his shoulders shook afterward, with soft laughter. “So that’s what you have in mind for us. Duck keepers.”

“Duck keepers. Or swans, though they can be vicious things...” James’s eyes were shining with mirth, crinkling at the corners. “Or, we could forget the pond altogether. I can think of a number of things I’d rather spend my afternoons occupied with instead.”

“Oh, I know full well there’re plenty of things you’d rather be doing. Spending a fortune on a new wardrobe, for example. Or trying to drag me along to countless dinners...” Francis’ own smirk gave him away, for as exasperated as he tried to sound, there was no denying that he adored every bit of James’s flamboyant, sometimes boyish, and desperately social tendencies. Sophia had once complained that he only used two of his ten drawers. He’d soon come to find out that the other eight, he’d been saving for James all along.

James swatted at his shoulder, pushing himself up into a sitting position once more. “Your friends seem grateful that I’m dragging you along,” he pointed out, as he began to tidy up the mess that they’d made, tucking dirty dishes into the basket to be dealt with once they were home. “They’ve seen more of you in recent months than in the years prior.”

“We were at sea the years prior, so that isn’t a fair comparison.”

James snorted. “You know my meaning, Francis,” he chuckled, as he pushed himself up, offering his lover a hand. “Come, we’d best get going. The sun will be setting soon, and I’d rather go home still feeling the warmth of the light than fighting off the chill of evening.”

“I’d keep you warm. You know that.”

Their eyes met, and they shared a knowing smile, James’s heart beating a fraction faster at that promise. Francis took his hand nonetheless, and together, they made quick work of folding the blanket and tucking it away. The streets were still bustling with life as they made their way out of the park and back toward their home. Their conversation remained light, but there were glances shared, a brush of his fingers against Francis’s arm, an undercurrent to their words as they both eagerly awaited the moment that pretenses could drop.

By the time they reached their front door, the sun was dipping below the horizon, a cool breeze blowing through the quickly emptying streets. Though summer was not far off, the evenings were a reminder that it was still very much spring, and as he dug for his key and unlocked the front door, James could feel the beginning of a shiver, the cooler air sneaking in under the layers that he wore.

“We never did agree on what we should have for supper,” he offered, glancing sidelong at Francis as they stepped over the threshold, and the basket was set just inside the door. “I’m more inclined to a midnight snack instead.” His mouth twisted into a sly little grin, and he reached out with slightly chilled fingers to brush them along the slightest flush of pink that had begun to color Francis’ cheek. “Perhaps you would show me how you intend to keep me warm?”

“Impetuous brat,” Francis chuckled as he pushed the door closed behind them. “You know I would never deny you.” With a hand at the small of James’ back, he nudged him toward the stairs. “Come on then, up you go, lest you end up catching your death of cold in our foyer.”

Chilled fingers entwined, they climbed the stairs to their bedroom, their halls ringing with laughter as they went. Never again would they be cold, not that night, not for the remainder of their lives, so long as they were together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, you can find me over on tumblr at [ @owlboxes ](https://owlboxes.tumblr.com). I do take requests! <3


End file.
